Wishful Thinking
by InsaniumArtisan
Summary: She's an ex-convict, given a second chance through a one in a lifetime opportunity. He's a singer, with a brain that works with the speed of a dial-up connection. Neither one expected to come across the other. But now that the two have mercilessly found themselves bound, in one way or another, where else could this lead but to tragedy? 2D/OC
1. Snatched

**Chapter One: Snatched**

* * *

**AN: **I should really stop writing new stuff.

But I won't.

Eh.

* * *

_"If people refuse to look at you in a new light and they can only see you for what you were, only see you for the mistakes you've made, if they don't realize that you are not your mistakes, then they have to go." _

_― Steve Maraboli, "__Life, the Truth, and Being Free"_

* * *

I remember my first fight.

I can't remember who it was against, but I remember other things. I remember the yelling, the crying, and the feeling of my face against hot asphalt. I remember that the tooth I lost was my fourth one.

I remember the way my mom screamed at me when I returned home after. How she fussed over my bruises and nicks, continually muttering the same thing over and over, despite my attempts to explain.

_"Girls shouldn't fight. Girls shouldn't fight."_

I remember my first best friend. I remember how she pushed me around, and how she called me names. I remember when she took me to my first party. I remember the tiny car, the overly tight dress I was packed into, and the stench of alcohol and hormones.

I remember the boys we met. They were rude, and acted stupid. I remember their gang. I remember joining it. I remember helping them rob a store, break into a house, and kill a man walking down the street.

I remember holding that man's bloodstained watch in my hands, and crying.

I remember when the police came and took all of us away. The running, screaming, and the hurry to shove the mess of illegal substances into our clothes before our faces hit the ground.

I remembered being filled with the feeling that I would die in that tiny cell, beaten to death by the flocking vultures that would press their ugly faces against the metal bars and sneer.

I remember being lonely. I had no one to hide behind. No best friend; she'd turned me in. No gang; they were all sent to the men's section of the prison.

And no mother. She'd died, so much earlier, of lung cancer. And I remembered it.

I remember it all.

And I expected that to be the end of my story.

But it wasn't.

I knew, out of everything in my life that I remembered the most, I would remember the day those metal bars slid open, and I was let out.

I would remember the day my life hit the Reset button, and I had the chance to start over.

* * *

"Your crimes were pretty serious, you know that, right?"

"Yeah."

"I mean, theft, vandalism? Pretty standard adolescent acts, yeah? But murder...drug peddling; Jesus, Riles, what were you _thinking_ of?"

"That the morphine I was on was completely kicking my ass."

The man leaning across his desk slides back, brows furrowing in irritation. "Riley...I'm here to help you. It's been your _seventh_ year here-you're serving a lifelong sentence, you know? And, I mean Riley, look at yourself! Your fu-," he coughs, and runs a hand over his combover. From where I sit, it looks greasy. But I don't say anything.

"You're covered in bruises, Riley. What is this, your fifth, sixth fight this week?"

"Tenth," I correct him.

His desk name-card reads "Frederick Grayson". He sighs again, and closes his eyes.

"Tenth..._Jesus_. Riles, you look like you can hardly stand, let alone throw a punch! No wonder you're so beat-up. Have you been eating at all? You look like a complete-"

"Drug addict?" I finish, "Yeah, been there. Done that. Thanks _so much _for reminding me, Fred."

"I'm trying to help you, Riley. I'm not your enemy, here, I'm your lawyer. Caseworker. Whatever-the point is, I'm trying to get you a way out. Don't you understand that?"

"I understand that." He relaxes a bit. "I understand that you've been telling me that you're working on a Good-Behavior waiver, for four years now, and I have yet to see a sign of that. Papers get lost in the mail, Fred? Or do I just not fit well-in with your golf schedule?"

Frederick tenses up, his mouth flopping open and shut like a dying fish. He doesn't know what to say.

We sit like that for a while, his mouth continuously moving, mine snapped shut. I guessed he really could have been trying, but I didn't know for sure. All that I knew was the moment I stepped out of that door, a girl named Sarah was going to punch me in the eye for accidentally scuffing her shoe in the lunch line.

I watched his face turn beet red as he finally found some words to say. "Your mother wouldn't have wanted this."

I straighten in my chair.

"She wouldn't have wanted you to fall in with that crowd, Riley. She would've wanted you to go to school, get an education..."

"Too late for that." I snap back. "I'm _twenty-six_ years old, dammit! My time for '_an adequate education_' has far since passed by, along with my chance for a normal life!"

I press my hand to my chest, and continue to yell, spitting my venomous words straight at him. "This is who I am, now, Fred! Just another prisoner! Just another stupid cell-number! I have no. Chance. Out!"

With my last word, I wilt back. It hits me like a dead weight. My crimes made natural reality impossible. There would be no job for me, no hope for a husband, a family. All I had was a tiny little cell, and a cellmate who liked to snore.

I expect him to leave. To just push away and slam the door behind him. But he doesn't. Instead, the man whose been staring at me with those same pity-filled hazel eyes does something completely unexpected.

He reaches into a bag, and pulls out a stack of papers.

The top one has too many small words on it, but the one that catches my eye is '_Waiver_'.

"I got your forms in the mail three years ago," he confesses. My head snaps up, fire boiling in my stomach.

"I just wasn't sure you were ready to be out yet. You needed more time, Riley, just a little more before-"

"More time?" I breathe.

"I just wanted to make sure you were fully operational in a less '_Gang-Mentality_'-ruled state of mind before I signed anything final."

I want to scream. I could have been out three years earlier. I want to lunge across the metal tabletop, and scratch out his golden eyes. I want to grab his spine in my hand and pull it out through his mouth.

The shackles pinning my wrists down clank with my violent shaking. I couldn't hit him if I wanted. If I have any energy left after so much yelling, it dies away, leaving a near empty-shell behind.

"I...if I can prove to you that I'm...f-'_functional_', will you sign the damn papers?"

"Yes. Yes, of course. I already said, Riley, I want to help you." He leans forward again, eyes shining. He thinks I've hit a break-through.

My fists clench so hard that my knuckles flush white. "What do I have to do?"

"Oh, uh-!" He chokes up a bit, apparently surprised at being put on the spot for so long. I wonder how long he'd been waiting for the opportunity to throw those files in my face. With the way his hands sift through his briefcase, like an artist selecting a prize show painting, I guess it's been for a while now.

I want to lean over and grab what he's holding when he pulls it out. His smile stretches across his face like the grin of a Guy Fawkes mask. It's slightly unnerving.

When he flips it around, my pulse starts to race. The feeling only increases when the cool, thin slip of paper hits my fingertips.

I grasp it, holding on as of the advertisement is a lifesaver, and I'm drowning. In large, bold letters, the first words I see are, "_Assistant Required_".

"What...what's this?" I mumble, skimming down the cacophony of sentences and jumbled information.

"I spoke to the head of your files, Riley. He patched me through to your judge, and I presented a plea for your waiver. '_Community Service_', is what he wants you to do! Just take this job, I'll sign the forms, and you'll be on parole!"

It couldn't possibly have been that easy. This was some sort of trick. It had to be. There was no possible explanation for...

I bite my lip. Fred must have gone through months of actually getting me this chance, if he had to sugarcoat it like that.

It was definitely a lie, but-my hands gripped down so hard that the words stretched along with the sheet.

I was taking this chance. If I could get out, just for even one day, one hour, one minute, my life would feel...so much less...worthless.

I look up, heat burning the edges of my eyes as I speak.

"I'll take it."

* * *

**AN:** That could've gone better.

Eh.

Reviews would be loved, yes? Yes.

_Yisss._

- InsaniumArtisan


	2. Sugar Rage

**Chapter Two: Sugar Rage**

* * *

_"The next morning dawned bright and sweet, like ribbon candy."_

_― Sarah Addison Allen, 'Garden Spells'_

* * *

It took me approximately four hours, thirty-eight minutes, and twelve seconds to realize that no one wants to hire an ex-convict. Especially one wearing what looks like an exercise outfit for a sumo wrestler.

As I shuffle around the small town I'd been so graciously booted to, pacing from shop to shop, and flashing my record papers, I feel far too similar to Jean Valjean for comfort. My irritation is no help to my job search, as I find myself turned down by everyone whose wary eyes travel across my old list of crimes. It's not until nearly half past two in the morning, as I walk the streets with absolutely nowhere to go, no money, and nothing but a future endeavor with payless community service, that I finally find solace in a tiny, twenty-four hour fast food place.

The air smells like fat and grease, but I curb the urge to throw up, and shovel down as many of the 'Free-Serve' sugar packets as I can. The high dosage of sweeteners in my blood does me good, as I feel the energy rush back through my veins.

Feeling more pumped than before, I approach the counter-woman, and hand her my papers, muttering an inquiry about jobs as I do so.

I never believed in a thing called luck, but at this moment, I clench my hands, and wish for a break. And one comes. The girl hardly takes a look at my files, and instead shoves them away, a hair net in her other hand. She tosses it to me and cracks her gum.

"You want a job? The pot-heads'll be in here faster than I can finish this stick." She points to her mouth, then back to me. "You got till then to suit up and get in the kitchen."

I open my mouth to explain that I don't know how to cook, but she cuts me off again, holding up a single perfectly manicured hand as a silencer. "Don't worry about it. These dumbasses are so high that they don't even care about what they're putting in their bodies-obviously. They'll eat paper napkins if you give 'em to 'em. Trust me, we've tried that experiment."

I nod, and tuck my sheets into the waistband of my pants as I slip the band around my head. The elastic digs into my skin, creating what I know isn't going to be a pretty mark, but whatever hair I have threatening to stick out is tucked safely back. I slide a stain-covered, smelly apron over my sweatshirt, and struggle to tie up the back.

The same time I duck back into the kitchen is the exact same moment the front-door lets out a jingle. A pile of red-eyed, sniffling kids totter inside, crowding the front order station like a herd of cattle.

Only a few seconds after that, a pile of orders are rolled back to the cooking station. I can hardly read the writing scrawled across them, but whatever I can catch, doesn't sound remotely fit for human consumption.

As my sweaty hands slip through packages of frozen potato wedges, and frostbitten patties, I realize how direly wrong this situation is. I'm suddenly the comic relief found in every kitchen-themed reality sitcom, the parole-ridden prisoner who had to work her tailbone off in the middle of the night for minimum wage. But there was no way in Hell I'm complaining about it.

Not this early into the job, anyway.

* * *

"For the love of...! That bloke was supposed to show up _five_ hours ago, Frederick! You swore, they'd be here at ten! And what _bloody_ time is it, Fred?!"

_"Three..."_, comes the cowed reply.

"Three, _what?_" From where 2D is sitting, Murdoc looks ready to toss his lid. The only thing the blue-headed singer can hope is that he misses when that clenched fist gets thrown his way.

_"Three...A.M."_

He almost feels sorry for the man on the other end of the phone. Who knows what happened that could've kept the guy they were waiting on? He could be held up in traffic. Or dead. The city was a really slasher-fest at nighttime.

Sometimes he could hear screams...but more than none, those were the ones that came from Murdoc's room.

He shudders at the green-skinned bassist's reply.

"Three...in. The. Damn. _Morning_." Smoke is nearly spiraling from his ears, and 2D cowers a bit in his chair.

The band needed the help, he knew. After a Noodle had rejoined them after the incident at Plastic-Beach, requests for concerts had been flying in nonstop. Agents had been sending the phone off its hook with flight reservations from everywhere, from cities like Paris, to places like Chicago.

Schedules and hotel brochures stack one after another in towers, crammed into every viewing corner of the living room, every band member's respective room, and a few hundred more were tucked away in the fridge, the shower, and the backseat of the Geep. Noodle has suggested they place some in the Winnebago for storage, which ended up as an argument that no one wanted to discuss with the owner of the vehicle.

They were drowning in papers, which is why they'd placed the ad in the first place. Well, it's why Murdoc had placed the ad.

And now, with the shallow way said man was gasping into the phone, with the same bridled fire of a soon-to-be-active volcano, 2D feels as if he were soon going to find his room with a 'For Rent' sign on it. Murdoc was going to kill him, he can feel it.

"Where is the bloody bastard?!" He finally screams, making the entire room shake.

_"I-I don't know!" _He can hear the man's desperation through the receiver. _"I sent her out this morning, I don't know what could've-!"_

2D finds himself a bit befuddled with the word 'Her'. Hadn't they been expecting a male assistant? Murdoc, however, only resumes his psychotic rant, cutting the pleading guy off by slamming his fist against the tabletop.

"Whatever the Hell it is, it had better get done soon! If that that twat isn't here in the next thirty minutes, I _swear_ mate...I swear I'm gonna-"

_"I'll get in contact! They'll be there sooner than you can say 'Making Millions'! I swear, I swear to you!"_

"Making. _Bloody_. Millions." Is all the bassist replies, clicking the phone with a defeated growl. He slumps into the chair behind him and sneers.

"M-Muds...?" His head snaps back up at the sound of his abbreviated name. 2D, still shrunken back in his place, feels his eye twitch. "What if they don't show up?"

"They will." Though the threat wasn't spoken, the quaking bluenette could feel it circling his bandmate's head like a fog, thick and heavy, like poison.

_'They'd better.'_

* * *

I hardly have time to finish brushing the stale crumbs of frozen fish-cakes out of my hair when the phone next to me rings. Confused, tired, and smelling like fast-food, I answer it.

"Hello?"

_"Riley? Riley?! Where are you!"_ The last of Frederick's words aren't a question, they're a command. One I don't understand.

I explain my situation to him, adding in the extra details I'd just garnered. After work I found a place to stay in. It was cheap, dirt-cheap, and I swore there was some sort of asbestos hanging around the upper corners of the room I was in. But as I recounted everything to him, I felt completely, and undeniably at ease.

No one was this lucky.

And like all moments of extreme luck, the harsher side of karma was bound to come crashing down on me soon.

And by soon, I mean the moment he began to scream hysterically about how I had already missed my first CS appointment.

"What?" I'm completely caught off-guard. Wasn't that scheduled to start until tomorrow? I mean, I'd just gotten off the plane here, not twelve hours ago! Wasn't there some sort of resting period?

Apparently not, as his shrieks rose to a demonically high level. Whoever the people were that I was going to work for, they sounded pretty unfriendly.

_"Get there, Riley. I don't care what you're wearing, or how late it is, or how far you have to walk. You have the address. Get there. Now."_

I want to laugh and say, 'No way in Hell.' But I know the moment I did, I'd be back on a shuttle-bus to Life-Sentence, U.S.A.. I groan, and throw my legs over the side of the dust-covered sheets.

"Alright. Alright. I'm on my way."

Fifteen minutes later, I'm back in my sweatsuit, hair still wet from a shower too cold for anyone who was not related to Mister Freeze, and packed in the back of a cab that smelled like old nachos and Wintergreen mint.

The man in front won't stop trying to sing along with the radio, though I don't have the heart to tell him he sounds less like Johnny Cash, and more like a male version of a previous-fame-days Rebecca Black. I content myself with doodling in the passenger-side mirror, until it realize what I'm writing in isn't condensation, it's saliva.

My tongue aches where I bite down. I refuse to scream. I slide my hands across my lap, and dig my nails into my thighs.

I'm suddenly exhausted, and really don't want to show up. But the moment the idea of turning back crosses my mind, I feel my ribcage. It's still borderline anorexic. I'm still on the verge of fatigue, and as much as I don't want this, I damn well need it.

The apartment the car rolls in front makes my jaw drop. It's five times bigger than the shack I'm lodging in, and ten times more posh. My blood boils, both with envy, and excitement. All of a sudden my concerns on the job have vanished. They've got to be loaded, or else this was all some sort of elaborate joke on a poor, hope-driven inmate.

I silently hand my tip to the driver, never once taking my eyes off the golden window frames, insanely-detailed angelic statues, and miles of greenery. Shrubs and flowers are like a pathway to Heaven as I approach the extremely luxurious doors.

For a moment, I turn around. They're screwing with me. Fred's screwing with me. This isn't real. I'm dreaming, put myself in some sort of catatonic state out of pure psychopathy.

No. I look at the thin bones in my hands, feel the paper-fragile feel of my skin across my ribcage. This is real. It...it _has_ to be.

I give one last look at the room number, pull out my papers, and step through the two swinging brass doors.

* * *

**AN:** Yay, another update.

Meant to make this longer.

Eh.

- InsaniumArtisan


	3. Mike Tyson In A Thong

**Chapter Three: Mike Tyson In A Thong**

* * *

_"And then he gives me a smile that just seems so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness that unexpected warmth rushes through me."  
― Suzanne Collins, "The Hunger Games"_

* * *

Before he opened the door, I thought to myself, _'I really hope these guys aren't too pissed.'_

After he opened the door, I didn't have much time to think anything else. I was on the floor, and my face exploded in pain.

He had punched me, directly in the jaw, and it hurt like Hell.

While the world slowly buzzes back into a respectable image across my eyes, the next few seconds of turmoil that occur could have easily devoured the wrath of every worldly disaster, like an unexpected shark attack.

A pair of arms sweep under my elbows, hoisting me to my feet much too quickly for my shocked brain to comprehend. Through the odd clicking in my ears, I can hear shouting. There's a lot of it, and it all sounds oddly apologetic.

"Shit, shit, _shit_! I didn't know-why didn't everyone tell me it was a damn _bird_ at the door?!"

"I-I _tried_, but you said..."

"Sod what I said, _all of it_! Sweet Prince-of-Darkness, are you _alright_?"

I can't tell if the guy addressing me is seriously concerned about my well being, or just scared I'm about to scream lawsuits through his eye sockets. It might be both.

To tell the truth, I seriously consider it. But then I realize where that'd get me, and bite my tongue to keep from lashing out. So I do the same thing I've been doing since fourth grade. I laugh it off, like getting sucker-punched is just some normal occurrence for my day-to-day existence.

"Ah, damn, man." I mutter, rubbing my sore jaw, "I guess that's my warning to not show up late again, eh?"

Through the freakishly green discoloration covering him from head to toe, I realize his ramrod posture means he's surprised. I don't know why, until he looks over my face with such befuddled ferocity that the answer smacks into me harder than his fist had.

He hadn't been expecting a girl assistant.

"What, I don't fit your qualifications?" I snap. My face feels like plastic wrap. "You're disappointed."

"You...no, he _said_...oh, for _Satan's sake!_" His hands fly up to massage his grease-covered scalp, and his expression turns vicious. "_You're_ Riley."

"Nice to meet you."

"You're a _bird_."

"Actually, I prefer the term '_feathered-individual_', but sure, whatever floats your boat."

"You know what I mean!" He snaps, teeth gnashing. I can't quite put a hand on it (not that I'd want to), but something tells me that this sort of thing is something I can look forward to. Anger I can take. I just hope the random acts of violence are kept to a minimum.

"You're a _girl_!"

"Why, yes. Thank you for noticing. Now what can a girl, like myself, do to get an aspirin around here? You throw punches like a freaking heavyweight."

Whatever sympathy he had for me visibly drains as he throws up his hands. "I can't _believe this_! I can't sodding _believe_ it!"

I watch, unamused, as the guy I assumed was my future boss, began to raucously screech his lungs around, suddenly transitioning from apologies to reprimands.

I was late. I was _damn_ late. Did I know how late I was? _Damn_ late.

A few colorful words were tossed about, but for the most part, I felt I deserved it. I was late. Much too late for a lecture. My fingers brush my throbbing cheek, only to quickly retract when I realize something else is already touching my face. It's not me.

A guy is leaning towards me. I feel like screaming, because from where I'm sitting, he has no eyes. What's staring at me are two huge, gaping black holes. Only when he blinks am I startled into the realization that the two supernovas in his face _are_ his eyes.

When he catches my unnerved gaze, an embarrassed look crosses his face. His retracts his hand slowly, almost like his entire body is set in slow motion, and smiles.

I feel almost ready to throw up. Not because of the freakishly blue hair, or the fact that he looked like a poster child for "All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front-Teeth".

No.

It was the fact that, within the smile that he sent my way, I could see the innocence in it. I'd seen it before, in every hopeful girl who crossed my path in those corridors of metal and ceramic. Every one of them who kept on hoping for a chance that would never come.

I remembered once wearing that smile myself. That smile so filled with...'_right_', that seeing it now caused pain much, much more unbearable than being smacked by an angry guy in a leopard print man-thong.

"S'rry, bout that." He mutters, in a voice so quiet that it's nearly drowned out in the 'Clotheless Wonders' irritant screams. "Muds' not usually so...well, he _is_, actually, but he don't normally take to hittin' birds."

"I hope not." I reply.

Almost like a spark in a dying bulb, something flickers in his face when he grasps the fact that I'm acknowledging his words. The grin appears again, awkward and sloppy, as his hands clamp together to entwine his fingers in an awkward sort of fidgeting.

I feel like crying again.

"M'name's Stuart. Stuart Pot, but most usually calls me 2D. Though sometimes Muds calls me 'face-ache'. Don't pay that no mind though, that is, if you don't want to." The words are slurred, and I can't pinpoint whether it's from exhaustion, a naturally slow mindset, or both.

"I'm Riley." I hold out my hand, and he takes it, shaking loosely.

"S'nice to meet you."

"You two done with your lovely little chat, or am I gonna have to leave the room soon?" A pair of bony hands slam onto the top of the small table I'm arched over. A flurry of stacked papers cascades with the movement, fluttering like a whirlwind to the floor, but the guy I guess is "Muds" doesn't seem to notice. Or care.

"M'name's Murdoc," he sneers, and I can see the yellow of his pointed teeth. His expression reminds me of a pissed dog, haunches drawn for an attack. His accent isn't as thick as Stuart's, and sounds more gravelly, as if he's been smoking a pack a day for God knows how many years. "Bassist for the Gorillaz, course, you already knew that..."

I had no idea. I had no clue what a '_Gorillaz_' was, and with what I was seeing, I wasn't sure if I wanted to keep around to find out.

"-and if we're here bein' all, introduction-y, and shit, you oughta clue me in on somethin'."

"W-What's that?" Fear settles like a weight in my stomach. I expect him to pull out a paper shank and stab me with it. It'd only be fitting for the murderous stink-eye he was giving me.

I almost yelp when Stuart shrinks into my side, as if I'm some sort of magical shield that'd protect him. His promising words about not fearing about being hit suddenly don't seem that promising anymore.

"_Why. Were. You. Late?_"

I don't have an answer. He seems to take my silence as quiet self-condemning acceptance, and smiles, so widely, so terrifyingly, that I almost pee myself, right then and there.

"Alright, then. I take it you won't be late _again_, then?"

I nod. My face is suddenly both fire hot and ice cold. My legs are numb, and my breathing is shallow.

'_Am I going to pass out?_' I wonder.

The complete lack of forgiveness in his gaze was like looking into an active volcano. I was going to burn to death in his rage. At least it'd keep me out of my cell.

Murdoc pushes himself back, and I squeeze my eyes shut, my hand suddenly enwrapped around something warm. It was comforting, to say the least about the tragic fear I was consumed with, and I prayed for a quick death.

A loud sound hit the place before me, and with it, came the feeling of a..._breeze? _

I open my eyes, and want to die all over again.

Towered over me are several dozen piles of files, sheets, and papers. The colors range from eggshell to bright yellow. Some of the words I can read, some I can't. For a brief moment I wonder if I did die sometime back, and this place had become my own personal Hell.

But then the warmth across my hand squeezed down, and I realized it wasn't. Stuart was gripping my arm like a lifesaver, his face a combination of scared and pained as Murdoc tossed pile after pile of letters, things that looked like brochures, and other miscellaneous papers at his head, using the blue-haired male's skull as his own personal trampoline, to rebound the objects onto the tabletop.

"This'll...be...your...first-Oi! Face-Ache, hold _still_! I can't aim when you keep moving around, dammit!" Laughing mockingly, the predator-like man shoved the silent bluenette's face roughly into the tabletop. Propping his elbow against Stuart's head like an armrest, he grinned at me, and waved towards the abyss of papers as if they were a treasure horde.

"Your first job, newbie. You wanna work for us? Prove your worth. Sort 'em out, get the jobs planned, throw out garbage, look over 'fan-mail', manage the financial documents, that sort o'tripe."

I almost had half a mind to tell him that I didn't want to work for him, but something kept my mouth glued shut. I glanced at poor, little Stuart, still trapped under Murdoc's rough 'playfulness'.

I wondered if it was better to leave, serve out my life going through the torment with a bitterness, than to witness one more second of it cast on something so sweet.

My arms shook as I stood...

And grabbed the topmost flyer.

* * *

**A/N:** Sweet baby Jesus, this thing might be going somewhere.

Feed it reviews to keep it going.

Or starve it. Probably keep going anyway.

Eh.

I love you, silent reader(s).

- InsaniumArtisan


	4. What The Hell Is A 'Gorillaz?

**Chapter Four: What The Hell Is A 'Gorillaz'?**

* * *

_"What a weary time those years were - to have the desire and the need to live but not the ability." _

_― Charles Bukowski, Ham on Rye_

* * *

It's only been an hour, and already I'm regretting my very existence for the umpteenth time. The room is quiet, creepily so, especially compared to the abyss of disorganization and chaos I'd been confronted with not too long ago. After saddling me with my workload, which is more like an indentured servitude than anything else, '_Murdoc_' heads to his room.

His last words are, "My door is always unlocked."

Or something akin to that. I feel like puking when he says whatever it is, so the message ends up garbled. The vomit would only cause more work, however, so I push it back down.

Stuart ends up falling asleep on the tabletop across from me. I think of asking Murdoc to move him, but I decide against it. It's for the best, for the interest of both parties.

His mouth is open slightly, and I can see the crookedness of his teeth. But oddly enough, it fits his face. Tufts of blue hang down around his eyes, and I can't help but wonder if it's naturally that color, or dyed to fit that particular shade.

Shuffling through the papers, I curiously glance back and forth from the ridiculously long sentences, to the snoozing man across from me. I wonder for a moment about his eyes. How were they like that, anyway?

I think about reaching out and opening one of them, just to see it again. He shifts slightly. I jump at the movement and shake my head. It was a stupid idea; I had no idea what I was thinking about.

The fatigue was getting to me.

Each poster that I sift through seems more outrageous than the last. Raves, engagement parties, clubs, concerts...it didn't take much to deduce their occupation. I should have guessed when Murdoc had mentioned the 'bassist' thing.

What'd he say their name was? The Chimpanzees, or something? I flip a letter over and peer at the address. It didn't give any clue. I keep looking through each invitation letter that accompany some of the posters and flyers, until I finally reach one that reads, '_Congratulations to Murdoc Niccals, head of the Gorillaz...'_

Gorillaz. I pause. It felt like I'd heard that name before. Probably caught it while flipping through music channels at the doctor's office or something. I didn't spend much time online as a kid, what with the lifetime incarceration and all, but before then, I'd never really liked TV and the Internet. They were too...predictable.

Intrigued by the introductory sentence, I pull the letter from the stack it sat within and grimaced. Something gooey and off-colored drips from one of the corner edges. Disgusted, I shake it gently, and hold back a dry heave when the substance drips onto the tabletop, with the same consistency as syrup.

Shuddering I grasp the dry parts of the paper and scan the words.

'_Congratulations to Murdoc Niccals, head of the Gorillaz, for successfully being nominated for this years 'International Battle of the Bands' contest! We here at headquarters were quite enthused by your admission to join the entertainment industry in arms with our establishment, as over the years the progress of your band's rise to fame has been quite publically known.'_

Rise to fame? All of a sudden I feel unbelievably inadequate to have never heard of them. Across from me, Stuart snores loudly. I ignore him and continue reading.

The letter goes on and on in complimenting Murdoc's supposed genius, and I wonder briefly if they mailed the wrong guy. If the guy I met was anything like how they were describing him, then why was this world-famous band lodging in an apartment for posh folks, and not in some huge private mansion somewhere exotic?

After they finally finish fan-boying their initial message, I can feel the switch into what they're actually asking for. The first round of the contests eliminations is coming up, and they want a demo tape to send into the judges.

It finishes with them mentioning the admission requirements, the fees, travel plans (if they make it past the preliminary level), etc, etc. The conclusion statement is another sickeningly sweet message thanking him for his entry to join the contest. I place the paper on the countertop and feel my brows screw themselves down.

So they were a worldwide known, famous band. Living in a luxury apartment. In one of the biggest cities in Britain.

And here I was. A convict. Little Miss Nobody, residing in a rinky-dink shack of an establishment. And the fact this is what I was just made me feel even more inadequate.

I end up working all night. By the time daybreak peeks in through one of the apartment windows, I'm still showered with papers. There are piles of them everywhere, even minus the ones I've already done. Those sit next to me, on the floor.

My eyes feel heavy, like something it trying to keep them stuck together each time I blink. My lack of sleep affects my movements, as well. Everything feels set in slow-motion. I contemplate just putting my head down for a moment, just as the sudden mind-numbing screech of an electric guitar blasts throughout the room.

I jolt up, knocking a stack of unanswered fanmail into my already done pile of papers. The sheets intermingle, and I realize with a sudden feeling of deep sickness, that I'm going to have to resort those out. It takes me a moment to place where the noise is coming from, until I pinpoint its location with shock.

"Uh…Stuart?" I mutter, poking the slumbering bluenette. "Your phone is going off."

He doesn't respond at first, but after a few more nudges, each growing with desperation to make the music stop, his eyes finally flutter open. The black portals stare up at me with half-fallen lids, and he smiles lazily. It makes him look young, almost childish. I try to maintain my composure as he casually pulls the machine from his pocket and flips it open.

With a tap of his finger the guitar's blaring freezes, cutting the high-pitched cries off into an unnerving silence. I rub my ears a bit, trying to work out the numbness that's settling where the absence of the sound was. "Is that your _alarm_?"

He stretches lazily, wire-thin arms wrapping around his head, "Yeah. 'S not workin' though. Gonna 'ave to upgrade it. Somefin' louder."

I bite my lip. Loud_er_? Could my sanity _handle_ that?

His eyes slide from the stack that sits in front of me to the mess on the floor. It looks like he wants to say something, and I dare him to ask me to pick them up. His mouth closes after a moment, and he only smiles. "Are you hungry?"

"What?" Why was he offering to feed me? Not that I was going to decline the offer to be fed, but it made no sense. Then again, none of this did.

If something good was happening, who was I to question it?

"Would you like somefink to eat?"

I try not to snicker at his pronunciation of the word 'something'. These guys really were Cockney class. Or at least, that's what it sounded like. Looking around, I couldn't really make that judgement. This place was so much more high-class than it looked like they were used to. Maybe that's why it was such a dump.

"Uh, yeah…sure. Thanks?"

He nods and stands. I watch him lean over like he's going to start picking up the fallen papers, and nearly spring out of my chair. If that Murdoc guy came down and saw that, he might start yelling at me. And Stuart. And I don't think either of us needed that at the moment.

"No! Don't…worry. I've got it." I scoop a few sheets into my hands, shuffling them as quickly as I can. Done, not done, not done, done, done. God, I had my work cut out for me. Again.

The guy whose hide I expected I was saving nods again, and shuffles out of the kitchen with a dead-shuffle I can only describe as a dead ringer for a 'Night of the Living Dead' zombie. I feel confused for a minute, until he slides back in, holding a scorched, stain-covered pan in his hand. It looks like it's a little heavy for him, and is weighing down his arm like a boulder.

_'Don't do it. Don't do it, don't do it…shit_.' I sigh.

"Let me get that."

He looks like he's going to protest as I take the pan from him, but I hold up my palm to stop whatever he's about to say. "Look, I'm sure you've got much more important things to do than sit around and make breakfast for an obviously unhelpful assistant. I'm already failing at one job. Just let me…try to make myself useful somehow."

Stuart shrugs. "Well, alright then."

'_That was easy._'

Maybe he was just used to having girls make him breakfast. Famous band member and all that, it wasn't like I didn't expect it. Just…not that easily.

_'So much for chivalry_,' I sigh one more time, and push grease-soaked flyers off the stove-top.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

I finally update. Yay.

- IA


End file.
